A Song of Ice and Fire and Steel
by Sarah-Connor-is-Khaleesi
Summary: A crossover of 1982's Conan the Barbarian starring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Game of Thrones. Sandor Clegane in the titular hero in this story of revenge, romance, and high adventure. Badly burned as a child, Sandor seeks the man who killed his family and gave him the scars he bears to this day.
1. Chapter 1

_Between the time when the oceans swallowed the Broken Arm and the Doom of Valyria, there was an age undreamed of. And unto this, Sandor, destined to wear the jeweled crown of Westeros upon a troubled brow. It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga. Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!_

"Fire and wind come from the sky, from the Seven. The Seven are your gods, the Seven and they live in the heavens." Tall and bearded, the man spoke this to his son a boy of barely ten years.

"The Smith, strongest of the Seven, revealed the secrets of steel to us men. Just men. The secret of steel has always carried with it a mystery. You must learn its riddle, little Sandor. You must learn its discipline. For no one - no one in this world can you trust. Not men, not women, not beasts." He points to the greatsword he grasps. "This you can trust."

The man hands to his son the sword. A two-handed greatsword, too large for the small child, but he would grow.

In the village, it was quiet. Men and women went about their business. One woman sat milking her goat as three men carried the carcass of a great deer through the village. Others ground grain for bread. Even their footsteps were hushed by the deep snow that had fallen the night before.

This peace would not last for long, for as they spoke, riders descended upon the village of Sandor and his tribe. They thundered through the great woods that surrounded the village. With them they carried a great standard, a golden lion upon a field of crimson. Sandor was watching the men approach his home. His thoughts turning toward his mother, father, and sister. He must go to them.

Sandor arrived as men on horses crashed through the village, burning and slaughtering as they went. He witnessed the riders kill men he had known since he was born. Sandor saw his mother take an arrow through the chest, protecting Sandor's sister, Astoria. Then his father, bravely holding off and killing half a dozen riders, took an axe between his shoulder blades. He was still alive when he hit the ground.

Astoria saw Sandor hiding in the trees. Leaving her mother where she lay, Astoria sprinted across the frozen ground with a sword in her hand to her brother. She scooped him up in her arms and raced away from the carnage surrounding them. Huts collapsed around them as they burned.

As they fled, Sandor could still see his father. He was not dead yet. For it was not the axe that would kill him, it was the three dogs. Bred for war, three black dogs descended on Sandor's father, ripping him to bloody shreds.

When tears began to fall, he could not tell if it was the smoke making his eyes water or seeing his father die. Sandor gripped Astoria tighter as she ran. He could hear sounds of pursuit behind them. A great, thundering horse carrying a great, giant man.

Suddenly Astoria pitched forward, falling toward the ground. Sandor tasted snow and dirt in his mouth when he hit the ground. Astoria jumped to her feet, pulling Sandor along with her. She placed her brother behind her, standing firm against the man who had attacked them.

The man was a mammoth, near eight feet tall and muscled like an ox. He wore heavy steel armor and carried a six-foot long greatsword in one hand. The other held an enormous oaken shield. As the giant lumbered toward them, Sandor swore he could feel the ground shake beneath him. He stopped for a moment, reaching up to remove the greathelm, revealing his face.

Astoria gasped in recognition. "Gregor?" She asked, unbelieving.

"Sister." When he spoke, it was like stone moving. "Still protecting the little pup, I see." He advanced, sword still in his hand. "I would like to kill you slowly, but m'lord wants to leave soon and I must go with. I suppose I'll save it for the little pup."

Astoria raised her sword. "I will not let you hurt him." She declared fiercely.

In response, Gregor simply lifted his sword and with a single stroke, struck off Astoria's head. She crumpled to the ground beside Sandor, his face silent with terror. Gregor grabbed little Sandor by the scruff of his neck, like a cat, and carried him to one of the blazing huts. He held him near the flames, just close enough to scorch the hair off his face.

Gregor growled his last words to Sandor in his ear. "I wanted to see you when you died, but the knowledge how much pain you will be in, will have to be enough for me." With one hand, Gregor plunged Sandor's face into the blazing fire and held him there until he could smell his brother's flesh burning. Like meat over a fire. Sandor screamed and kicked and screamed. Nothing fazed the giant of a man. When he was satisfied, he released the boy, and mounted his horse. Spurring the horse on he went to rejoin his liege lord.

Sandor lay there in agonizing pain, half of his body burning from the fire, the other half buried in snow. He lay there, silently praying for death.


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor was dimly aware of the sensation of being lifted from out of the snow and being carried somewhere else. He lost consciousness again, blinded by pain and soothed by the constant rocking in the person's arms.

When he awoke again, he could see that he was in a small square room, cluttered with junk. He lay on a coarse blanket, his chest was bare. The face of an old, elderly peeked into Sandor's view and he passed out.

This time he stayed awake long enough to ask a question. "Where am I?" Sandor asked the old man.

"Somewhere safe." The man reassured Sandor.

He tried to sit up, but the motion caused immense pain to racket throughout his body. "You mustn't move!" The old man commanded. "Your wounds haven't healed yet."

"My wounds?" Sandor asked, confused. His recollection of the last few days was fuzzy at best.

The man stared at him seriously. "You were burned grievously across the face and down your left arm and torso." That explained the stiffness Sandor felt. Carefully with his right arm he reached out and hesitantly groped the left side of his body. From the crown of his head to the bottom of his ribs, he was covered in bandages. The sensation of being plunged into the fire suddenly came back to him. He could feel Gregor's hand at the back of his neck and he could hear the last words he spoke to him.

It was too much for him, it all came back at once. The urge to flee was strong. He tried to run, to sit up out of this bed and run. The old man stopped him, with a strength that surprised Sandor. He pinned him to the bed and commanded him to be still.

He released Sandor and crossed the room. He rotted around amongst the junk and clutter of the room. Coming back with a cup filled with a steaming liquid, he forced the concoction down Sandor's throat.

Sandor coughed up most of the drink in his panicked state, but he still managed to swallow most of it. The drink soothed his throat, and his anxiety dissipated. He felt relaxed, safe. Within seconds, he had drifted back to sleep.

He came to multiple times, each time staying awake for a little longer. The old man, whose name he found out was Ebrose, encourage him to move about the small room he resided in. The clutter and junk that filled the room was countless scrolls, herbs, plants, trinkets, and such.

Sandor was told by Ebrose that he was a healer, and a scholar, and a scientist. Whatever that meant. Sandor assumed that by 'scientist', Eborse meant that he was generally eccentric. Ebrose would flit about the room, cooking this up, pausing to read this, encouraging Sandor to drink whatever concoction he'd devised for him this time.

When Sandor would get too sore to continue his exercises, Ebrose would tell him stories. He would talk of men that lived in the ocean and breathed water. Of men and women that rode striped horses and shave their heads bald. And he told Sandor about legends of the shadow at the end of the world. But Sandor's favorite story were the ones Ebrose told him about dragons and the empire who used them to conquer the known world.

One day, during Sandor's exercises testing the burned tissue, he asked Ebrose a question. "Why did you save me?"

Ebrose didn't hesitate to answer. "Because I could not let a child die in pain like that."

"But how did you find me?" Sandor asked.

"I was passing through the forests, hoping to meet a man in Norvos. He claimed that he had in his possession a text on dragonlore from Valyria herself." Ebrose paused. "I could see the smoke from miles away, I wanted to see if anyone needed assistance. All I found was you. Everyone else was dead."

Sandor bit back tears. He knew his family was dead, he saw it with his own eyes. He just needed to know for sure. He felt so angry. His scars, his family, it was Gregor's fault.

Sandor barely remembered his brother before he left for war. Sandor couldn't have been older than five when Gregor left. He went off seeking glory with Tywin Lannister's army. Gregor had always been so big, even when he was young. He had always been cruel as well. Sandor remembered dogs disappearing from their village. Girls with unexplainable scars. Everyone knew the depths of Gregor's cruelty, but they would say nothing. They were all so happy when Gregor left.

Sandor could remember the fear Gregor always managed to inspire in him and the happiness he felt when he left. It seemed as though Tywin Lannister had only managed to exacerbate Gregor's cruel tendencies.

Soon, Sandor's burns began to heal. He could take off the bandages finally. But the first time he saw himself without them, Sandor wanted to cry. Half of his hair was gone, burnt off. The skin on his face was the worst, burnt skin, falling off in patches, blackened and oozing liquid. On his jaw, he could even see bone.

His arm and chest fared better. The skin was simply pink and warped, instead of blackened and oozing. He looked like a corpse. Sandor was thankful only Ebrose could see him like this.

He asked Ebrose once if his face would ever heal. Turn to pink and puckered skin like on his chest. Ebrose simply shook his head and told him _'No child, the skin will never heal.'_

Eventually Ebrose allowed Sandor to leave the small room he'd been stuck in. The rest of the house was similarly decorated. Small and sparse, every spare surface was covered in all manner of trinkets and scrolls. He would avoid the kitchen, as a fire burned in the great hearth practically all day. Ebrose requested his help in preparing their dinner and Sandor nearly dropped the bowl he was holding. He found he could not compel himself to approach the fire, and any attempt to do so nearly brought him to hysterics. He would not, he could not make himself do it.

Ebrose asked the boy what was wrong. Sandor did not answer. Upon seeing where the boy's gaze was directed, Ebrose simply took the bowl from his hands and sent him outside to chop more firewood.

Sandor liked being outside most of all. The fresh air invigorated him after long hours spent in the stuffy house. He enjoyed the ache of his muscles after he chopped the firewood. It reminded him of his home in the forest. How quiet it could get when everyone was hard at work. There was no time to chat when there was a goat to be milked and game to be skinned and steel to be forged.

He could remember watching his father hard at work at the forge. His father would hammer the steel into submission, shaping it into a sword, ready for battle. Though even the memory of the burning forge could send Sandor into a near panic.

One day Ebrose announced he would be taking Sandor to Norvos. He felt Sandor had recovered enough to endure the tough journey to the great city. For Ebrose still wished to see the man about the Valyrian text.

The journey to Norovs is a hard one. The woods surrounding the city are filled with bears and packs of wolves. Though there are paths through the woods, even they are not free from danger. Ebrose seems to think the risk is warranted when it comes to Valyrian texts.

They packed a cart filled with vegetables from Ebrose's gardens, pelts Ebrose has traded for, and trinkets whose purposes are lost on young Sandor. The cart is pulled by a gray donkey with a back bent with age, and Ebrose rode while Sandor walked. He carried a rusted sword Ebrose had produced, seemingly with the purpose of defending them. Sandor doubted the sword could even kill the old donkey that laboriously pulled the heavy cart.

Norvos sits on the eastern bank of a great river. It sits high above the forests ringing it, on high, stony bluffs. Below, the lower city spreads along the muddy shores. They passed through the terraced farms around the city before they could enter the lower city.

Never in his life had Sandor ever seen so many people. He marveled at the sheer size of the place, while suddenly feeling self-conscious about his scars. Sandor pulled the hood up on his cloak, hoping the shadows would hide his face. He was not out of place. It seemed all people covered up in this weather. Norvos was a chilly place, blanketed in fog under dark skies.

They passed through rows of timbered buildings. He could hear drunken shouting out of the open door of one building. In another, half-naked woman draped themselves out of windows. Sandor pointed them out to Ebrose. Ebrose simply chuckled at the poor boy and told him he'd explain it later.

Finally they stopped in front of a building much closer to the high city. It too was constructed of timber, it had a sign advertising that this was a merchant. The interior reminded Sandor of Ebrose's home. Small, dark, and cluttered. Every object conceivable littered every available surface and some even spilled onto the floor. Sandor had to watch his step to make sure he didn't break something.

A shifty-looking man stood behind the counter. He was shorter Sandor, though taller than Ebrose. Lean, in a weasel-y sort of way, his eyes were constantly shifting, his hands fidgeted with the object before him. He looked up and saw the two of them approaching and his whole demeanor changed. He instantly stilled and stood straight, a wide smile breaking out across his face.

"Welcome, Ebrose. It's been a while. I had started to think you weren't coming." The weasel-y man smiled welcomingly.

Ebrose dismissed him with a wave. "I'm not here for pleasantries Alequo, I'm here for the texts. I have the price we agreed on."

Alequo's smile widened. "Glad to hear it my friend, but the price has gone up in your absence."

Ebrose was shocked. "I have the gold you wanted, what else do you want? I have many fine pelts."

He shook his head. "Furs are cheaper than whores in this city. You'll have to offer me something of value." Alequo's eyes shifted, landing on Sandor who'd been standing there silent throughout the debate. "Handsome-looking boy you have. How old is he?" Alequo inquired.

"He is ten-and-one-years. What of it?" Ebrose demanded.

Alequo chuckled. "Nothing my friend, only that he is tall for his age. And he'll get even taller I suppose. He looks strong too, those burns make him look fierce." Sandor shuffled back, torn between embarrassment and rage.

"How about you give me the gold you promised for the texts, and throw in the boy and we have a deal?"

Sandor was shocked. The man was offering to buy him, surely Ebrose wouldn't simply give him away for a piece of paper.

"Deal." Declared Ebrose.

"WHAT!" Sandor exclaimed. "Please Ebrose, don't give me to this man! You saved me life, I trusted you!"

Ebrose did sincerely look apologetic. "I'm sorry my boy, but flesh is cheap in the Nine Cities, Valyrian texts are not." He collected the scrolls from Alequo. "I hope you will not begrudge me this act, and may we meet again one day."

Sandor watched the old man walk out the door, and once again he was all alone in the world. All alone with this flesh merchant.


	3. Chapter 3

"What are you going to do with me?" Sandor asked Alequo nervously. He had heard tales of what some men would do to young boys. Alequo didn't look like a man who preferred boys, but what did Sandor know of such things?

"You are too young for real fights, at least in the pits. So we'll train you until you are old enough." Alequo told Sandor.

Sandor felt relieved, but also concerned at the prospect of having to fight. "You said 'we'. You and who else?"

"You'll meet him."

The instructor Alequo brought to Sandor was an ex-pit-fighter named Khrazz. Tall and heavily muscled, he had shaggy red-brown hair. He also wielded a strange curved sword he called an arakh.

We under Alequo's shop, in a large dirt basement. Stairs led up into the shop. On the left wall was a rack of assorted weapons. Swords and spears and weapons Sandor couldn't name. Training dummies stuffed with straw lined the opposite wall.

"Has the boy ever held a sword?" Khrazz asked Alequo.

Sandor disliked being treated as though he were no in the room. "The boy can hear you, and yes, I have held a sword before. I am Cimmerian, I held a sword before I could walk." Sandor informs the man, sharply.

Khrazz turned away from Alequo, standing directly in front of Sandor. He stood so close, Sandor could smell the stench of his untreated furs. He thought the man would strike him, or berate him. Instead he laughed. "Ha! My friend brings me a Cimmerian!" Khrazz playfully slaps Alequo across the chest. "Do you know that they say Cimmerian men mate with bears, their women are too ugy!"

Sandor, with a surge of white hot rage, lashes out at the pit-fighter. Even though, at one-and-ten, Sandor was as tall as a man, Khrazz simply pushes him to the ground. He laughes again. "Your mother must have been a bear, with the fire in your belly!" Khrazz threw a sword, with a straight blade unlike the arakh, at Sandor still lying on the ground. "Pick it up, bear-boy. Show me the fire in your gut."

And so Sandor trained. He trained for days, he trained for weeks, and he trained for months. He would practice holding the sword Khrazz had given him until his arms felt weak. Sandor took blow, after blow from his Meereenese instructor. He got back up after every hit, because Khrazz was right. There was a fire in his belly. It had been there since his brother forced him into the fire, and it made him keep going.

"Again!" Khrazz cried as they went through another drill. His sword struck against Sandor's, sending a vibration through his arm.

Sandor lunged, aiming for Khrazz's gut, only for the blow to be knocked aside. He slashed at his hamstring, yet Khrazz brushed it aside again. Blow after blow was blocked by his instructor. He could feel the white-hot hate curling up in his gut. His blows became more forceful and erratic by the second.

"Yes, boy. Use your hate, let it fuel your fight." Khrazz encouraged the boy.

Sandor let out a primal scream, bringing his sword down hard and sending Khrazz staggering back from the blow. Shock was etched across his face, shock that quickly turned to pleasant surprise.

"Very good." Khrazz smiled a crooked smile, filled with yellow teeth. "I think it is time for a new sparring partner."

When Sandor showed up for practice the next day, someone else was waiting for him. A scrawny youth, only a year or two older than Sandor.

Khrazz seems to notice his confusion. "Your new sparring partner. I did say I would get you one." He smiled wickedly. There was more to his decision than just Sandor's advancing skills.

Sandor faced the new boy, holding the sword in front of him as Khrazz trained him. The youth held the sword awkwardly. He'd never held one before, Sandor realized. He goes through the normal motions with him, testing out the boy's abilities. It confirmed exactly what Sandor thought. He'd never even fought before.

Sandor was simply playing with the boy. He was starting to have a sneaking suspicion why Khrazz wanted Sandor to fight him. He finally knocked the boy to the ground, Sandor wasn't even trying. The boy just sat there on the ground, scared stiff by the sight of Sandor's sword in his face.

Khrazz laughed at the pitiful display put up by the boy. "Very good Sandor, but you know that I don't just want you to fight him."

Sandor shook his head. "No."

"I knew you were a clever boy." Khrazz laughed. "Kill the boy, Sandor. "

The hand that held the sword shook. He could see the sweat running down the boy's face. He was terrified, he knew Sandor would kill him. "He's a slave." Sandor protested. "Weak and pitiful. He does not deserve to die. The gods would not like it."

"Weak and pitiful? Then what does that make you?" Khrazz asked. "You are a slave, but you are strong because you fight." Khrazz stands next to Sandor, breathing his words into his ear. "Your gods do not exist boy, and if they did, the gods made the weak for the strong to play with." He paused. "You are strong Sandor, kill the boy."

He could not bring himself to do it. The boy was weak and pitiful. Sandor's hands shook with rage and fear. _"I am strong."_ Sandor told himself. Suddenly, the boy was no longer a scrawny slave of sixteen with snot running down his face, he was older and bigger. Big as an ox, with a face as hard as stone. Sandor was looking into the face of his brother, Gregor. Unable to control his actions, Sandor brought his sword down. The boy did not linger, the blow pierced his heart. His life's blood soaked the dirt floor of the cellar.

Sandor, feeling hollow, lowered his sword and wiped the blood off the blade on the dirt floor. He stood, watching the blood pour from the wound he inflicted. Soon the boy was as pale as a corpse and Sandor was sick with himself.

Khrazz clasped Sandor on the shoulder. "Well done Sandor. You gave him a clean death." He turned away, headed up the stairs. "We start the real training tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor was fighting a Dothraki man. Tall and broad he fought with an arakh and wore nothing but horse-hide breeches. The long braid he wore commemorated his victories in the fighting-pits. Bells jingled with his every step and his braid brushed the small of his back. He was tall, but not as tall as Sandor. Sandor had at least half a foot on the man, but he fought fiercely.

The fierce, Meereenese sun glinted off the many-colored bricks of the pit and caught his eye. Sandor's opponent had maneuvered him so as to blind him. It worked. He took a graze from his arakh before responding with a slice to the Dothraki's hamstring. The blow sent him to the ground of the pit they fought in, knocking the blade from his hand. Around them crowds cheered, calling for blood.

The Dothraki scrambled, desperately reaching for his weapon. Sandor did not give him the chance, he opened him from breast to groin. The crowd roared in approval. He reached down and took the long, black braid in his hand. He saw off the thick braid and tossed it to the ground. This one would go to their Great Stallion with his hair shorn.

The crowd went wild. "Hound, Hound!" They called in all their native tongues. They called out for him. All men had names in the pit. Sandor's was The Hound. He did not stay for their applause, he had no interest in glory.

As he entered the catacombs surrounding the area, the air silenced around him. Men and women milled around him, waiting for their turn to fight. Animals brought in for the pit-fighters to battle. Still there was silence. This was a time for each of the pit-fighters to pray to whatever god or gods they believed in.

Sandor believed in the Seven once. He found that even after all he'd gone through, they still wouldn't answer his prayers. So what was the point of gods? Looking around at the men and women he saw, Sandor would say that they only served to give them false hope.

He wanted to retreat back to his chambers deep with the catacombs, to drink himself to sleep until the next fight. Perhaps he would get to fight one of the great, golden lions that paced in their small cages. They looked like they would be glad of a fight.

Alas, Sandor did not make it very far before being stopped. It was the slave master. His great red-black, bristly hair shaped into enormous horns, made him appear like a great daemon. In many ways he was. Most slaves knew to fear the man, his cruel eyes, and twitchy hands that loved to caress the dragon-bone hilt of his barbed whip.

"Hound, come with me. Someone wants to see you." He commanded in thick Ghiscari. Sandor learned the tongue after less than a year in Meereen. Sandor had come here when he was barely fifteen and had spent the last ten years spilling blood for the masses of Meereen. And he knew enough that when the slave master asked for you, it was never good.

He led Sandor through the twisted passages and out of the catacombs. An open air balcony over-looking the city below. A place where rich men met to buy and sell slaves. Sandor knew exactly what was happening.

Three chairs were set up, two of them were occupied. One by the fattest man, Sandor had ever seen. His fat billowing out the silk tunic he'd often seen wore by noblemen of Pentos. Dyed gold with black trim, the tunic could serve as a tent. His fat rolled off of him and nearly engulfed the chair. His black hair was a wild tangle about his face, and his thick, black beard covered a double chin.

Next to him sat an attractive young man. Seven-and-ten years or close enough, he was as tall as a full-grown man and a face like a woman. Golden curls framed the boy's face. Sandor hated the prick already. He had sneer on his face like he smelled something disgusting. His fingers curled around the hilt of a golden sword. Though by the look of him, he'd never swung a sword in earnest a day in his life.

The slave master took the last seat, leaving Sandor to stand. Sandor had been a slave long enough to know how to melt into the background of a room. He listened to their conversations with a detached mind. Only coming to attention when he heard the master refer to 'The Hound'.

"He's one of our finest fighters, of course he's never lost a fight." He gestured to Sandor, pointing out the incredible muscle structure. Sandor was bare-chested. He never wore armor, only leather breeches and rough sandals.

He saw the fat man eye him imperiously. "What about his burns?"

Sandor could feel his throat tightening in response. The other slaves had learned not to point out or ask questions about Sandor's burns. They knew that to do so would leave them to face his wrath.

"What of them?" The master said impassively. "They do not hinder his abilities. And besides, who would dare tangle with a man who looks so fierce? I wager that the only reason that anyone would fight him, is because they have no other choice." All three laughed at the master's jest.

The fat man thought for a moment, looking pensive beneath the sheen of sweat and his bushy, black beard. "I'll give you one thousand." He offered.

"One thousand?" The master exclaimed in mock surprise. "I'm offended. He is worth at least twice that much. Give me two thousand and five hundred and he's yours." The master smiled widely, showing off his yellowing teeth.

The boy, silent during the entire proceedings, finally said something. "I'll give you two thousand for the beast." His voice sounded as haughty as the rest of him looked. Sandor's suspicions about the boy were confirmed. "I need someone new to spar with. He looks like he's up to the challenge." The boy confidently patted his sword. Sandor wanted to murder the boy right now.

Money changed hands and Sandor was given over to his new masters. When the fat man rose, Sandor discovered that besides being enormously fat, he was also exceptionally tall. While Sandor still topped him by a good half-foot, the fat lord was still bigger than most every man.

Within hours he was packed into a great sailing ship heading away from Slaver's Bay and onward to Pentos.

It felt strange to Sandor. To live in one place for so long only to be suddenly uprooted. That his life can change its entire course based on the whims of the man who held his contract. He stood on the prow of the ship, watching Meereen fade into the distance until all he could see on all sides was water.

He'd never been on the ocean before. All his life had been spent in the forests around Norvos. When he had finally left Norvos, he left on a boat heading down the Rhoyne to where it met Volantis. From Volantis Sandor traveled overland to Meereen where he had spent the last ten years.

The salt-spray invigorated Sandor's senses. An almost forgotten sense of freedom rose inside of Sandor. Though then he had to fight the rising quell of nausea that rose in his stomach from the rocking of the ship. He was forced to retreat below decks with the rest of the slaves.

He learned from talking with the slaves below that he'd been bought by a man named Robert Baratheon and his young son, Joffrey Baratheon. They had told him that soon they would be in Pentos. That the Baratheon's lived in an enormous manse within the city, and that Lady Baratheon was supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world. Aside from the dragonlords, of course.

He wanted nothing more than a drink of ale and a corner to sleep in, but he could find no such things on board the crowded ship. He was forced to make idle conversation with the slaves. While he was doing so, he was approached by Lord Baratheon's steward. "M'lord will see you." The steward led Sandor into the lord's personal quarters.

Lord Baratheon waited for him behind a great, wooden desk. The antlers of great stags lined the walls of the Lord's personal quarters. Along with crossbows and other instruments of war. Sandor even saw a great war hammer. He gestured toward an empty chair, indicating Sandor should take a seat. Sandor sat on the edge of a leather chair that was clearly made for Lord Baratheon enormous rear.

"Man, tell me your name." Lord Baratheon demanded in a deep, booming voice.

Sandor shifted anxiously in his chair. "M'lord can call me The Hound. That's what they all call me."

Lord Baratheon waved his hand dismissively, making a noise of disgust. "Your name, man. Your _real_ name."

Sandor hesitated, taken aback. It had been so long since someone had called him by his given name, or even cared to ask. "Sandor. Sandor Clegane."

"Alright Clegane, you're no longer a slave. I don't hold with this slavery nonsense. If you work for me, you work as a free man. That means free to leave my service if you please." Lord Baratheon informed him.

He should feel relieved. He'd been carrying around a knot of hate and resentment since Ebrose pawned him off to Alequo, but instead Sandor felt nothing.

They arrived in Pentos within months. Compared to the crowded, stinking city of Meereen, Pentos seemed small and quiet by comparison. The buildings were resplendent and Lord Baratheon's most of all. It boasted its own compound with a garden full to bursting of oranges, lemons, and all sort of exotic fruits. The red brick compound had an enormous kitchen filled with servants, stables that housed beautiful steeds, and enough rooms to accommodate the entirety of Sandor's old village.

Sandor had his own room. A small thing tucked off to the side of the courtyard. Directly above the kitchens, his room always smelt of food. Seeing as how the little shit of a lord that he served would be recuperating from his journey for a few days, Sandor could spend his time drinking. Which is exactly what he planned to do. Without anyone to kill, Sandor snuck a bottle of ale up from the kitchen and locked himself in his room.

He was violently awoken hours later by someone banging on his door. Grudgingly, he crawled out of bed to answer the summons. It was that damnable steward again. "The lord has asked for you in the courtyard." He requested in that condescending voice that made Sandor want to rip out the steward's tongue and feed it to a real hound.

Sandor had learned long ago not to ask questions. So he simply set down his ale and followed the fool to the courtyard. Lord Baratheon and the young lord Joffrey were busy speaking with some guests when Sandor entered. Lord Baratheon stopped in the middle of what looked like a very animated story when he saw Sandor enter.

"I told you he was a fierce-looking one. Didn't I, Ned?" He was talking to a rather severe looking man around the same age as he. Black hair was pulled away from intense gray eyes that seemed to judge Sandor for all his faults in a single glance. He was dressed rather somberly compared to the boisterous Lord Baratheon.

Though it wasn't Lord Baratheon's male guest that caught Sandor's eye. It was the female one. She slim, fair maid of six-and-ten with auburn hair that shone like copper in the bright, Pentoshi sun. Large, blue eyes were set in a delicate-looking face, full of innocence. Sandor's father taught him to pray to the Seven, The Smith, The Warrior, The Father, The Mother, The Crone, The Stranger, and The Maiden. Sandor no longer believed in them, but he knew in that instance that if the Maiden walked among men, she looked like this girl.

He was still enraptured as they kept talking. "I bought him two months ago, straight out of the fighting-pits in Meereen. You should have seen him defeat this Dothraki man. Gutted him like a fish!" The sound of Lord Baratheon laughing was like the sound of a thunder clap.

Ned still eyed Sandor cautiously. "Perhaps we should have a demonstration of his skill." The man suggested. "You said Joffrey wanted him as a sparring partner. We should see if he is up to the task of fighting a swordsman of such caliber." Ned said this all with sarcasm marking his voice. Sandor got the impression that Ned did not think much of the young lord.

Lord Baratheon though seemed highly amused by the idea. "Go on then, boy. Show me what I'd paid for." He commanded his son.

Looking displeased, Lord Joffrey rose from his chair. In the center of the courtyard, he drew his golden sword and faced Sandor. Immediately Sandor could see the boy was inexperienced. His stance was too wide, he gripped the sword too tight, and he was holding the bloody thing straight out in front of him. Perhaps he hoped Sandor would simply walk into the blade.

From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see the girl watching him. Her stare was so intent, he felt uncomfortable and it made him feel angry. Was the girl staring at his scars?

Sandor drew his own sword and advanced on the boy. He gave a few practice swings at the young lord, simply to test the water. The boy weakly blocked the first few strokes, nearly having the sword knocked from his hand. Then Sandor attacked harder, using more serious strokes. The young lord backed away from Sandor quickly, trying to keep the blade away from him. Sandor saw his opening, caught the boy off balance and knocked the young lord on his noble arse.

Lord Baratheon laughed like a thunder storm, chuckling at the ineptitude of his own son. Ned sat there, staring impassively at the two, though Sandor swore he saw the hint of a smile on his face. The little lady seemed to enjoy the little performance, clapping, declaring it well fought. Sandor turned to face the girl. She silenced under his stare, but she still smiled at him.

Sandor stormed back to his room in a rage, eager to resume his bottle of ale.


End file.
